Like Father, Like
by Mousme
Summary: Samuel Campbell discovers exactly what it means to get what you wish for. Spoilers through 6.10.


Title: **Like Father, Like...**

Prompt/Summary:Written for **spn_las**. The prompt was "beautiful mistake." Summary is spoilery up to 6.10. Crowley gives Samuel his daughter back, as asked. Samuel is pretty sure it's what he wanted.

Characters: Samuel, Mary, Crowley

Rating: PG

Wordcount: 823

Disclaimer: None of it is mine, please don't sue.

Warnings: Spoilers up to 6.10

Neurotic Author's Note #1: So somehow I'm still in it with **spn_las**. I'm not sure how that happened, but here we are, and this entry actually won the challenge. So.

Neurotic Author's Note #2: Ever notice that in SPN it is always bad when you get what you wish for?

* * *

She's as beautiful as he remembers. Older, more poised than graceful now, but still just as beautiful. There is grey at her temples —prematurely, just like her mother's. It's her eyes that are really different, Samuel thinks as he watches his daughter calmly pour lighter fluid over the body of a 'shifter and drop a lit match onto the corpse. Those expressive eyes that both her sons inherited from her, devoid now of the fire that he remembers. Mary's eyes remind him of Sam's, now. His grandson's words echo in his head constantly these days. iWhat's dead should stay dead/i. It's more true than even Dean knows, Samuel tells himself.

"She really is remarkable," a voice breathes into his ear. The accent is unmistakable.

"Crowley." It's an acknowledgment, barely more.

"Oh, don't be that way," the demon is smug, hands shoved deep into the pockets of the woolen coat he affects, despite the fact that demons don't feel the cold, or the heat, or anything, really. "You got your daughter back. Isn't that what you wanted? Never let it be said that I don't honour my bargains."

"That's not my daughter," Samuel says quietly, teeth gritted, hands clenched by his sides.

"Come now, that's not true. That's your daughter, just the way Sam is Sam."

"She's nothing like how she used to be. You swore you'd bring her back!" He can't help the anger that creeps into his voice.

Crowley snorts. "Ingrate. D'you think it's easy, pulling a person out of heaven? I can only do so much, you know, even if I am king of Hell. You're lucky you got this much of her. Be grateful, at least _her_ soul isn't where your grandson's is."

Beyond the flames, Mary raises her head to look at her father, nods once to confirm the kill and nothing more, eyes empty. His Mary hated hunting, wanted nothing more than a normal existence, a husband and children and a white picket fence and a dog. Walks to the park, picnics in the yard, road trips to the Grand Canyon. A lawn to mow. She hated his trips away, hated it even more when he brought her with him, forced her to learn about silver and consecrated iron and how to salt and burn human remains.

His Mary was young and vibrant and beautiful and at the end she had fought him tooth and nail on everything. This woman, this stranger who's almost his own age, is content to follow where he leads —so long as it means they're hunting, which she does with brutal efficiency. Never when she was alive was she this focused on the hunt. There's nothing in her of his baby girl.

"Quite the hunter, your lass," Crowley says, as though reading his mind. Demons pick up on surface thoughts, he reminds himself. "It must be nice to have her back in the fold, as it were. Back in the family business. Isn't that what you wanted all along? She's nice and biddable, now."

"I don't want her _biddable_," he spits the word with all the derision he can muster. "God damn it, I gave everything to have her back!"

"And you do," the demon points out, oh-so-reasonably. "You do have her back. Just because you didn't read the fine print," Crowley clucks his tongue disapprovingly. "You really ought to know better, Samuel."

He whirls, anger boiling to the surface, but Crowley has vanished. Mary saunters over, casually wiping the blade of her silver knife on a rag, making sure it's completely free of blood before sheathing it again. Samuel forces himself to breathe, his pulse to return to normal, and gives her a brittle smile.

"What'd Crowley want, Dad?"

"Just checking up, I guess."

She nods, doesn't question further. "We going back to base after this?"

He blows out his cheeks in a gusty sigh. "I was thinking that I could give Sam and Dean a call. We could meet up with them, if you'd like."

There's nothing he wants less, but apart from Gwen, those two boys are all that's left of their family. The children for whom his daughter gave up her life nearly three decades ago. Her eyes flick to him and then away again, registering mild curiosity.

"What for?"

He stares at her, at a loss for words. Then he sighs once more, and leads the way back to the truck. She hops into the passenger seat —hers since the subtle jockeying for the position of his second-in-command was resolved upon her return— buckles her seatbelt and settles in for the ride, hands folded demurely in her lap, eyes closed. He finds himself stealing glances at her during the drive, at the delicate profile he thought lost to him forever. Like this, she's exactly how he remembers, and it's easier to convince himself that this is the best mistake he's made in his entire life.


End file.
